No one expects to have fertility issues in their early-to-mid twenties. This is especially true when you hail from the South, or any other area where sleepy small towns and family ties permeate the scenery. Where I come from, we often joked to “not drink the water,” because women were pregnant all around us. After moving away (very far away — to Alaska, as a matter of fact) and coming back with just my husband and desperate hopes of a baby, people couldn’t understand why it had not happened for us yet. What those pointed questions of “Don’t you think it’s time?” and sweetly made remarks of “Bless their hearts; they don’t know how wonderful it is to have a little one!” sought to do was nudge us toward the parenting parade — but actually, they had no idea how we longed and prayed for a baby.
It sounds foreign to many — there are areas in the country and western hemisphere where getting pregnant before 30 practically qualifies you to be the subject of an MTV special. In the South, though, the family-oriented culture is as thick in the air as the scent of barbecue in my small town, and many people I went to high school with had two children by the time we were in the deep throes of trial and error, frustration, and infertility. We’d been passively trying for more than a year, and actively trying for two when we finally felt a breakthrough: a positive sign on a pregnancy test that brought so many joyous tears and exclamations of relief as we joked we’d no longer be walking our child to preschool with orthotic sneakers and canes. Now, when faced with the omnipresent barrage of questions of “When?” and “Why not?” we jubilantly replied, “6 more months!”
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We lost the baby when I was nearly 13 weeks along. It felt like a cruel joke to have tried for so long, felt the triumph and hope of a pregnancy, and to have lost it all in the end. Things felt so unfair: How was it that other women I knew already had three babies while I couldn’t yet carry one to term? I felt so alone.
But when I began to open up about the loss to family and friends, I realized I was far from the only one. Women I’d known for years started telling me about their stories — stories they’d never talked about, stories they’d kept repressed in silence for years in our small town.
And when I posted a story that I’d written about my experience one day on social media, the floodgates opened: Many of the women who didn't feel comfortable discussing their fertility struggles out loud instead poured their feelings out online. They were loud and clear that they had also endured the gut-wrenching heartbreak of babies that almost or never were. Dozens of women now shared their stories of rainbow babies, adoption, and IVF, IUI, and more. One of my colleagues was on her second round of IVF to have a baby — I never would have guessed it. Her demeanor never gave away hints about that kind of stress or strife, but the words came tumbling out as she told me her story, as though someone had given her permission to breathe easily and vent about it for the first time.
The most interesting thing about the sleepy small town that I call home is that it encourages a sense of community. We love and care for one another in such a genuine way that people know one another’s grandparents, form meal trains for the sick or the recently bereaved, and host playdates so the children of their friends can grow to be friends with their own kids, just like they were. We hold fundraisers to send kids to camp, to help couples adopt, and to (quite literally) build new additions onto churches like years long past.
Despite all of this, though, it seems as though the messy bits of life where we really need extra hugs the most is when we’re most likely to be met with confused looks and even disdain for the struggles we endure — after all, “at least you know you can get pregnant,” right? Numerous people said this to me following my loss, and it stung more than any other comment. We have to do better. The community we establish for ourselves needs to truly serve in the same tangible way be it for parenting or any other endeavor. The silent strength of those who have suffered losses is immeasurable, but I believe in strength in numbers and solidarity in those dark times, where only others who have been in the trenches can lend the listening ear we feel matters most.
I do think things are changing. When we finally had our rainbow baby in 2017, the community I never knew that existed in my small town rose up to cover me — in warmth, in prayer, and in encouragement. They rallied and rejoiced as the news spread like wildfire that she was born and healthy and all we’d ever hoped of. In those moments I shrugged off the thoughts of those who questioned why we were taking so long, and instead turned to those who acknowledged she was so worth the wait.
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